A Gamble on Love
Page 7
Anxiety clutched Relia’s throat, sending sharp spears of pain through her chest. They were actually making this perfectly horrid, cold-blooded match. She was lowering herself to marry a Cit. A Cit who was far too bold and domineering.
Yet he had remembered to buy her a ring. Thomas Lanning was, in fact, sitting there offering her the most beautiful ring she had ever seen.
Relia thought she might be ill.
Slowly, fearfully, Miss Trevor extended her left hand. Mr. Lanning was right—the ring was a perfect fit.
If only their marriage could be such an exemplary match.
Shivers ran up Relia’s spine. There could be no doubt. She had just made a disastrous mistake.
~ * ~
Chapter Seven
Seldom has a wedding been marked by so many inimical countenances. Seated in the Trevor pew—with its high back, ornately carved door, and kneelers done up in petitpoint by Aurelia’s dynamic great-grandmother—were Lady Hubert and her son, looking for all the world as if they were attending the funeral of their nearest and dearest. Behind them were Squire Stanton, his good wife Margaret, and their stair-step children—Harry, the hope of the family and three of his four younger sisters and brothers. The squire and his wife might have been riding a tumbril to the guillotine for all the enjoyment they seemed to be deriving from the wedding of Miss Aurelia Trevor and Mr. Thomas Lanning. Young Harry’s mood seemed to swing wildly from belligerent indignation to brow-wiping relief. Miss Chloe Stanton, age eighteen, was not seated in the Stanton pew as she was to be the bride’s sole attendant. The three youngest Stantons, however, were so intrigued by the hostile undercurrents filling the modest church that they peeked, eyes dancing, across the aisle of the old stone church to see if the groom—a Cit, imagine that!—had any friends at all.
Apparently, he did not. That side of the church was empty, while various townspeople, including the mayor of Lower Peven, upper servants from Pevensey Park, and a number of Miss Trevor’s tenants squeezed in behind the Stantons. Everyone looked solemn. Glad they might be to see Miss Trevor married, but a man of the City was not at all what they had imagined for Miss Aurelia. Time would tell was the general consensus, while an occasional dire muttering could be heard here and there.
Since white was an accepted mourning color under special circumstances, Miss Trevor was wearing a gown of stark white velvet. It did not become her any more than deep black. Instead of a radiant bride, the congregation saw a young woman looking nearly as pale as her gown, a washed-out wraith who, some said, looked as if she would run for it if she only had the strength. And Lord Hubert? Well, there wasn’t a soul who didn’t know what he thought of these proceedings. Cut out, he was, and not liking it one little bit. Instead of the organ playing in the loft, a body could almost hear drums beating a deadly tattoo to a hanging. Old Gloomy Guts, that’s what he was. ‘Twas a wonder Miss had gotten him to escort her down the aisle.
Briefly, the Stantons allowed their frozen expressions to thaw as their Chloe walked by, looking demurely lovely in peach silk with amber mums woven into her blonde hair. A fine sight, all agreed. But the congregation soon shifted its fascinated attention to Miss Aurelia Trevor and her uncle, as they paced solemnly toward the altar. Who knew?—m’lord might drop into an apoplexy at any moment.
And then every eye was riveted on the man stepping forward to greet his bride, with what must be yet another Cit at his side. Well, a man had to have at least one friend, did he not? That the friend was almost as tall as the groom, with an open countenance marked by a shock of blond hair and seemingly sincere blue eyes, did Mr. Lanning no discredit. Those in the congregation who had seen Mr. Lanning before nodded, a few poking their neighbors in the ribs. See—not so bad . . . for a Cit, that is. Of course, if’n she’d had more time, Miss Aurelia c’d o’ done better. Bad thing, her pa and old Yelverton sticking their spoons in the wall at near the same time. Heads nodded sagely.
Weren’t weddings supposed to be joyous? Relia clutched her bouquet of white and gold mums until the stems dug into the palms of her hands. Somehow she stopped where she was supposed to stop. Someone tall loomed up beside her. An intimidating stranger. Never mind that brief meeting in London, their drive around Pevensey Park, or the past two days in which Thomas Lanning and his solicitor Charles Saunders had spent most of their time closeted with Lord Hubert and Lord Ralph’s solicitor, pouring over documents in meetings that were occasionally punctuated by Lord Hubert’s bull-like roars of protest.
Proper settlements or no, she was about to be married to someone she barely knew.
You started it! her conscience chided.
Dear God, she had.
“Dearly beloved . . .” The vicar, taking his cue from the somber faces around him, did not offer the benign smile with which he usually began the wedding service.
The whole thing passed in a blur. Relia heard herself say the words, heard strong repetitions from Thomas Lanning, but could not distinguish, or ever recall, any individual words. Except . . .
“You may kiss the bride.”
Kiss the bride? But the moment was over before she could protest. Mr. Lanning bent his lips to a brush of her cheek, and then they were turning, facing the congregation, moving so fast down the aisle Relia had to rush to keep up. If this was how the miserable man planned to control her life . . .
He did. They rode back to Pevensey Park in an open landau, with Mr. Lanning constantly urging her to smile and wave, for all the world as if he were the owner and she the bride newly arrived in Lower Peven. And then she remembered he was exactly that. For all he had doubled her generous quarterly allowance and granted equally munificent dower rights, Thomas Lanning now owned Pevensey Park. Blast the man! She was totally dependent upon his keeping to the spirit, as well as the legalities, of the trust and marriage settlements.
The wedding breakfast—attended only by the wedding party and their relatives, plus the mayor and his wife—was sumptuous but over rather quickly, with only Mr. Saunders and the mayor offering toasts. In all too short a time the new Mrs. Thomas Lanning found herself being divested of the ghostly white velvet and inserted into a silver gray traveling ensemble with spencer and bonnet trimmed in vertical rows of pin-tucking. And then they were in the well-appointed Trevor coach and Mr. Saunders was assuring her husband that he would “take care of everything.” If that meant dislodging Lord Hubert and his family, perhaps this nightmare wedding had been worth it, Aurelia grumbled to herself as she sat bolt upright on the edge of the blue velvet squabs, refusing to be comfortable. Refusing to relax her guard in Thomas Lanning’s presence.
With a sigh of relief that their charade of a wedding was over, Thomas leaned into the coach’s luxurious upholstery—and discovered he was gazing at the back of his wife’s bonnet. Good God, if the chit planned to sit like that, he should ready himself for a lapful of female at the first deep rut in the road. Undoubtedly, she was expressing her displeasure about something. Again. Though what he had done this time . . .
Not what he had done, Thomas amended. It was more likely what he had not done that rankled. Taming Lord and Lady Hubert and The Terrible Twyford without leaving his betrothed bereft of relatives at the altar had taken all of his diplomatic skills; while, during the same past two days, his head for business had concentrated on protecting Miss Trevor’s interests, his own interests, and the future of Pevensey Park, again without completely alienating the Hubert Trevors. Settlements had been made—from his own monies—of which his bride knew nothing. And would not have believed, even if he had told her.
Which he had not, as they had exchanged no private words since their tour of Pevensey Park the day of his arrival. So it was scarcely a wonder she was sitting there with her back ramrod straight, being shaken by every little bump in the road. Truthfully . . . yes, he had ignored her. Avoided her. Had no idea what to say to her.
Had he feared he would blurt out the truth? Feared his sense of fair play would overcome his hard-headed ambition?
Of him?
“Aurelia?” She stretched her body, sitting even taller and straighter. It took considerable effort to keep from putting his hands about her waist and pulling her back until they were sitting side by side. “Aurelia, I apologize. I should have warned you that dragonslaying is a time-consuming occupation. I fear the Fair Maiden frequently finds herself waiting, all alone and uninformed. And then with the wedding hard on the heels of triumph . . .” Thomas let his voice trail away.
Miss Trevor—Mrs. Lanning, he corrected himself, not at all certain he cared for the sound of it, even if it was far better than Mrs. Trevor-Lanning—paid him no heed. She might as well have been riding in the gig behind them with her maid and the luggage. Was that not why he had banished the maid from the coach—so he might have this time alone with his bride?
“Aurelia,” he tried again, “there are matters we should have discussed, and I am well and truly sorry I did not find time to do so before the wedding.” His wife’s chin descended, just a trifle, encouraging Thomas to continue. “Aurelia . . . you need have no fear of me. I have given the matter some thought, and I believe we should leave our marriage one in name only until we are better acquainted—perhaps until the end of your year of mourning.” His voice rose into a question at the end, but the only sound within the coach was the steady crunch and whirr of the wheels, the thud of the horses’ hooves.
“You are, of course, a busy man,” his wife declared at last in a voice as tight as her shoulder blades. “Naturally, you will wish to return to London immediately. It was . . . kind of you to suggest a few days at the Wells in order to put the cap on our charade.”
“I was not thinking of appearances,” Thomas retorted.
She turned toward him, opening her eyes wide. “Truly?” his wife mocked. “I had thought to employ a dragonslayer. Instead, I find myself wed to a man who talks his enemies into submission. A man who stoops to bribing the dragons to go away. I suppose you will retire Mr. Tubbs to a cozy cottage—”
“I have already done so.” Hell and damnation, he could handle all the dragons, find the right face and deft hand to confront every problem, but his agile mind and vast experience seemed to desert him when it came to his wife.
“Aurelia,” Thomas ventured on a more humble note, “I believe I have not offered my felicitations on reaching your majority. It is scarcely fair, I fear, that you are forever condemned to celebrating your birthday and your wedding anniversary on the same day.”
“You are assuming I will wish to celebrate my wedding anniversary,” his bride responded coldly.
Devil it! He’d done everything she asked of him. Was he now being cast off? Dismissed like some hired outrider when the danger was past?
Relia was not at all certain why she was so incensed. The miserable Cit was right, of course. She had been utterly terrified of the night to come. She knew many brides were bedded by near strangers, but she could not—simply could not—picture herself doing whatever husbands and wives did with a man like Thomas Lanning. A large . . . commanding . . . impossibly sure of himself Cit.
What a faradiddle! The truth was . . . the truth was, although she had been terrified, now she was insulted. He did not want her. He had gained Pevensey Park and was now free to reveal how little interest he had in what went with it. Horrible man!
Relia’s hand flew to the hangstrap as the coach hit a nasty bump. Strong arms dragged her back, placing her against the squabs in a firm, no-nonsense display of strength. “Now stay there,” her husband growled, “or you’re like to break your silly neck.”
A silence, seething with carefully repressed emotions from both bride and groom, reigned during the remainder of the distance to Tunbridge Wells.
The Swan was a gracious inn, providing the most imposing façade among the classic colonnaded buildings fronting the terraces and shops known as The Pantiles. Only a short walk along the top terrace was Tunbridge Wells’s version of the famous Pump Room in Bath. Three levels of broad flagstone terraces, built into a hillside, were visible from the front entrance of The Swan. Each level had its own picturesque assortment of fountains, shops, pubs, and dwelling places for those who had come to take the waters. At intervals, shallow steps led from one terrace down to the next, a distance of four of five feet with no protective railing. The flagstones simply came to an abrupt end with a sheer drop to the terrace below.
The overall effect, however, was charming—smaller and more intimate than Bath. And more colorful, as fall flowers spilled from baskets hanging between the long row of white columns on the upper terrace. If only the Wells were not filled with so many sad memories . . .
“You are pleased with our rooms?” Mr. Lanning inquired, as they stood in front of The Swan, inspecting the panorama of The Pantiles.
“They are most acceptable,” Relia told him, careful not to reveal the enormity of her relief when she saw that he had meant what he said. Or seemed to. They had a spacious suite, with a sitting room and two bedrooms, though there was no dressing room to accommodate her maid. Tilly, poor soul, must share a room in the servants’ quarters. Of course, it was supposed to be her wedding night—
“Would you care to visit the Pump Room?”
“No!” Sharply, Relia drew back from the arm her husband was offering.
“I beg your pardon,” Mr. Lanning muttered, “I had not thought. You were here with your mother, of course. At The Swan?” Relia nodded. “Then I am truly sorry. I have been gauche. We should not have come—”
Surprised, Relia could only stare up at the genuine regret she saw reflected in her husband’s gray eyes. He meant it. If he had thought about the actual memories this town held for her, he would have taken her elsewhere.
“Do you wish to leave?” he asked. “We can go to Brighton, although I fear the fashionable set has returned to London by now.”
Calling on the prideful bearing of generations of noble ancestors, Relia put her hand through her husband’s arm. “Not at all, Mr. Lanning. Tunbridge Wells is a lovely town, and I know you are anxious to return to London. I will not keep you. We will make a show of enjoying our brief wedding journey, and then you may be gone.”
They had moved past three shop windows before the customarily silver-tongued Mr. Lanning found his voice. “I would be pleased if you could call me Thomas,” he said.
Relia peered into the shop window, as if half boots and silk slippers were of all-consuming interest. “I daresay I should,” she conceded, still intent on the shoes. “For the sake of appearances.” But she did not repeat his name.
They walked on. Making a turn where the Pump Room jutted out to block most of the terrace, they strolled back along the outside edge of the flagstone terrace, a vantage point from which they could better view the lovely line of colonnaded buildings, the flowers and fountains, and the colorful parade of people come to enjoy the delights of Tunbridge Wells. Among them was a group of boys in nankeen breeches and short coats, obviously scions of the gentry or they never would have been allowed to tear along at such a pace in the midst of the strolling adults. Relia smiled at their exuberant high spirits. Her flagging spirits were brightened to see a group so full of cheerful, even boisterous, energy. This was, after all, her wedding day. And surely someone should be filled with joy.
The colonnade came to an end. “Would you care to explore the next terrace?” Mr. Lanning inquired politely. “Or would you prefer to examine the shops we missed on this level?”
“I believe . . . I believe I should like to go down,” Relia told him. For all her husband’s promises, it seemed better to put off returning to their rooms for as long as possible.
They started back along the terrace, heading for the nearest steps, with Thomas walking on the outside, gallantly shielding her from any possibility of a fall. Bu
t just as they reached the stairs, the hoard of galloping boys, now on the lower terrace, charged toward the steps from below. Why she thought they would give way for her, Relia never could quite understand, but as she reached the top step, the boys dashed up, one of them jostling her hard enough that she lost her light grip on Thomas’s arm. She staggered, missed her footing completely. The stone steps, the sharp edge of the upper terrace, the rock hardness of the lower terrace five feet below flashed across her vision in a blur of horror. Breath rushed out of her lungs. The world swirled. She fell.
And then there was a jerk on her arm. Around her waist. And she was standing on firm flagstone, her nose pressed hard to her husband’s chest. Heart pumping hard, her breath coming in gasps, her head so dizzy she would have fallen if Thomas had not held her up.
~ * ~
Chapter Eight
“Vicious scamps!”
“Imps of Satan!”
“Tan their hides, I would!”
Comments from the crowd whirled round her, never quite penetrating the cocoon of safety Relia found within the arms of the stranger she had married that morning. Just as she became aware that they were the cynosure of an ever-growing crowd, Thomas began to move, people parting before him like chaff on the wind. A blur of terrace, the hotel lobby . . . she was swept up the stairs with her toes skimming the steps . . . and then she was lowered into a well-padded chair in their sitting room and a small glass of brandy was being pressed to her lips.